


Waiting

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: captain swan ahoy, hiatus drabbling, i listened to i want you (she's so heavy) by the beatles on repeat to write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2136780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pirates take; Killian Jones waits. And anticipates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

"Swan, wait!"

_Damn. Not again._

His internal sigh nearly expressed itself aloud. It was always _something_ when you're the... person next to the Savior. Forevermore, he would be the one next to the Savior, come hell or high water. At least this time when he chased after her, it was because she was running toward danger and not away from him.

This is not to say that it was not frustrating, that he was not frustrated. " _Sexually_ frustrated," was the diagnosis of the dwarf who was always smiling. A loud crash out of doors had caused Emma to bolt out of Granny's, leaving Killian stuffed in the corner of their booth a moment to cool his ardor. His fault, honestly, for stealing caresses and imagining the stretch of skin that he knew thrummed beneath the necklines of the maddening shirts she wore. Everything she wore and did drove him mad these days. This wanting, this waiting... he had waited three hundred years to feel this way without even realizing, and now that he was aware of it, he positively _vibrated_ with waiting. Killian Jones was a patient man. He could wait a bit longer.

Just a bit, mind.

The thought of simply taking her had occurred to him (and her, if the way she studied him across the counter in the Charming loft was any indication, and of course there were those not-so-furtive glances as she drove toward the next "epic town fuck-up," his face placid and his mind content to feign nonchalance as she looked him up and down with a restrained sort of precision). But ah, the anticipation! Killian Jones was done with taking; he'd had centuries of taking _things_ and _lives_ and _virtues_. What was the value in realizing that all those years of profligate degeneracy had resulted in _something_ if he did not stop to savor the moment? That he had finally reached the end of a hero's quest that had begun with the death of a much-loved brother only to reward him with the imperfect perfection of the blonde woman running breathlessly in front of him?

Yes, he could wait a bit longer. Taking had its charms; _giving_ was far superior, and he planned on relishing in the giving.

"Ugh," she said, stopping abruptly and rolling her shoulders. He near ran into her, he had been so bemusedly lost in thought. Looking around, he noticed the stillness of the town, the chill of the evening slightly less than was normal, a crisp snap in the very air. The woman they had been chasing had seemingly vanished, once again.

"Lost our quarry again, have we?" he said with forced lightness, the tension in his body leaching up his neck and trembling on his lips. She looked so damned appealing to him—she always would and did—but there was something in the set of her shoulders, the way her chest heaved with both exasperation and lack of air, the dangerous glint of suppressed irritation in her eyes (thankfully not directed at him this time, although that appealed to him as well). The Savior looked—well, pissed, to borrow her parlance.

She shifted to lean against an obliging brick wall, wincing as she straightened her back. It was plain as day to him that she was fraught with all the tension of being the Sheriff, being the Savior, being the dutiful daughter, being the still-finding-her-footing-mother and... and being _his_ , and she was carrying the entire burden on her shoulders. It was a testament to her strength—her character—that the woman did not fall to pieces, and he shook his head with a sense of wonder as he approached her. His three-hundred-year quest's reward was getting to ensure she did not fall to pieces, or, should she falter, be allowed to right them. Extraordinary.

"Yeah, she's slippery, that one," Emma murmured, reaching up to soothe an aching muscle in her shoulder. Perhaps it was the look in her eye, the frustration inherent, or perhaps it was the way she was visibly carrying the worry of an entire town on her shoulders, but in all likelihood it was the delicious expanse of skin across her belly that flashed with her raised arm; whatever the motivation, Killian Jones found he was utterly unable to prevent himself from advancing on Emma Swan with _intent_.

Her eyes widened by margins with each step he took, tracing his movement toward her until his lips were mere inches from her temple. He could feel the heaving of her chest, could see the puffs of steam emanating from her mouth with each exhalation. Torn between the urge to consume her thoroughly and provide a moment's respite as was his original intention, he had to close his eyes and steel himself a moment, taking a deep breath.

That was a mistake. Despite the ever-decreasing temperature, he could feel her warmth, reveled in it. Felt everything he loved about her suffused in the very breath he needed, life-sustaining, Emma-infused air filtering in his head and throughout his body.

"What?" she asked breathlessly to the inadvertent tuneless humming he had begun in her ear. He smiled into her hair, resisting the urge to touch. It had been thus for days, now; stolen moments, almosts, bodies pressed against each other, straining toward one another, heated kisses, hands on places but never _in_ places, clothing fingered and grabbed but never breached. And always, always interrupted by some new, fresh sort of fuckery. She made to move and he stilled her with fingertips pressed to her arm.

"Just... take a breath, love," he murmured, his words brushing across her ear.

"We don't have time for breaths."

"Precisely the reason to take a moment," he said, enunciating his words softly. "Emma," he admonished lightly at her slight huff, "you need to relax. You're no good to anyone when you're this... tense." She turned to face him and the indignant, infuriated look she shot him was so _her_ that he had to contract his chest painfully to prevent a laugh from escaping. Tapping at her chin with his thumb, he leaned forward to press at the furrow in her brow with his own, closing his eyes and willing her to listen to him for once.

"Relax," he whispered. Surprisingly enough, he could feel the moment some of her tension eased, and wouldn't it be splendid if it was his touch that did that? In the deepest, secretest place where he kept the earliest and most hopeful parts of his past, Killian shoved that thought next to old memories for later perusal. Detailed, exquisite perusal.

"Here," he murmured, taking a half step back and turning her so she faced the doorway of the building upon which they leaned. He gathered her left wrist with his hook and her right with his hand, then raised her wrists above her head, locking them with his hook bracing both. As his hand drifted downward he palmed the top of her head, his eyes closing as his fingers drifted along the soft, cold wisps of hair blowing around with each exhalation from his mouth.

"What are you—"

"Relax," he laughed. She needed this. Taking a shaking breath, he allowed his hand to drift down, down, down to the hem of the red leather jacket she wore. Briefly playing with the hem, he then reached under, brushing his palm upward. His fingers landed on the nape of her neck and pressed into skin that shimmered with gooseflesh. _Marvelous_ , he thought with a smile.

Before she could protest further, he began pressing around the cervical bumps, feeling the knots and tension in the muscle surrounding. He found one swollen bit and worked it, moving his thumb in soothing circles until he could feel the liquid relaxation of her entire body against his.

He continued a meandering path of his fingers down the cord of her spine and it was all he could do to prevent a _taking_ when she arched her back, a soft hiss escaping her mouth followed by a huff of cold steam. Reining in his piratical impulses, he continued soothing and pressing and sweeping his hand, and if he dipped in to leer into her hair once or twice, well. A pirate can only suppress so much.

With a subdued sigh, his hand reached her waist. He gave in to impulse this time, resting his palm on her hip a moment. He squeezed the flesh there, his fingers briefly grasping at the fabric of her shirt before leaving her altogether.

"Better?" he said into her ear, amused when she startled at the word. He did not wish to pull away so didn't; her erratic breathing made her back brush against him with each expansion of her chest.

She nodded, mute, still braced against the wall. Slowly, he lifted his wrist from where it was still pressing her hands into the wall, turning it so that the blunt of his hook trailed down her arm.

"I wish..." he began, then shook himself from such thoughts. It would not do; it was not the time. With the weight of several centuries' worth of regret, he stepped away, firm in his decision that _now is not the time_. He reached out to turn her when her words interrupted his resolve.

"What do you wish?"

"Lass, now is not—"

"What do you wish, Killian?" She had turned her head so that he could see her profile, and he saw a smile tilting the line of her lips upward. It was that small movement of her mouth that made him do what he did next; he had only meant to relax her, hand to the gods, but if she could find a moment in these turbulently frozen times to smile—and he was the one who put it there—then surely, he could allow himself this?

Closing his eyes and swallowing to ease the sudden dryness in his throat, he cursed the rasp in his breath as he answered her very simple question.

"I wish I did not have to wait to be with you."

Her utter stillness gave him pause; for a moment, he regressed into his _before_ state, before their jaunt to the past, before their understanding; before she had allowed him into her consideration, into what was _her_. With a shaky laugh he came to; the time for uncertainty had passed with their first actual kiss, when she had been kissing Killian Jones and not the pirate who had taunted and teased and acted nobly for once. Er, of a sort. No, this was not _before_. Killian was certain about the utter solidity of them now.

With that thought soothing his mind, he realized with a beaming smile that her stillness was because she felt the same way, about the waiting, the wanting.

Good. _Excellent_. He took a step closer until his body was flush with her back, his chest absorbing the slight movement as she breathed deeper, faster.

"I wish the blasted ice cream queen would quit vanishing so we could be done with her," he said into her ear, hooking a lock of hair away from her cheek. "Because, Emma? Would you like to know what I would do if we had even one night of inactivity?" He felt rather than saw her nod, his lips drifting down to murmur directly into her ear. "Well, I suppose I would spend a lot of time right... here," and with that, he simply breathed across her lobe, his eyes lowering to the distracting sight of her chest heaving.

Lifting his head, he raised his head to press his lips against her temple, fighting once again the urge to take. Seemed he'd been doing that ever since he'd met her, come to think on it. He vowed a long time ago (with no regret and much longing) that he'd only take were she to ask.

His hand once again found the warmth of her hip and he squeezed lightly, tipping his chin down to murmur into her ear. This time he witnessed the shudder when his facial scruff rasped against her skin.

"Here, right here, is my favorite spot. Why, you might ask? Well," and he delighted in her gasp when he drew his lower lip along the soft skin of her ear, "the opportunities that are availed to me, of course. Whither shall I go? Here?" He kissed just below her lobe, eliciting another gasp. "Perhaps here," he murmured an inch or so over to her jaw. "And there is always the delightful prospect of here," and he ran his open mouth down her neck to where the collar of her shirt revealed the sinewy lines of her shoulder. Keeping his lips just there, he continued his praise of her form, directing his words to each bit of skin his lips found. "I would take great pleasure in devoting hours to memorizing this particular bit of you, Emma. See, there is a small mark just _here_ ," and he grazed it with his teeth, bringing forth a sharp inhalation from her. "And then there's always the fascinating prospect of figuring out _this_." He brought his hook up to nudge at her collar, pulling at the strap below the shirt that he knew was an undergarment of some sort. Before he could damage the thing, he let it slip off and it snapped at her shoulder. Wincing, he made to apologize when he noticed that it the sharp snap had elicited another gasp. _Interesting_. He saved that bit of information for another time.

Stepping even closer into her warm form, he returned his mouth to whisper in her ear. "You see, Emma, I want you so badly, it's slowly driving me mad with anticipation. Your hip, here; I want to know it intimately, to grasp it this way and that. I want to take this hook of mine and shred your clothing in such a devastating way that you won't be furious with me afterward for the delight of it. I want to lay you down in a bed and gaze upon you, memorize every bit of your skin with my lips and teeth. I'd want to be gentle but I know I wouldn't be; I'd not be able to help myself. I can barely do so now. Your scent, your warmth; it's rendering me senseless." The shallow gasps of her breath were coming faster now, her head hanging down, her entire body going limp. He shoved his knee between her legs to prop her up in theory but in reality, it was because he craved more contact, even were it to be fully clothed. "I want to touch you everywhere, absolutely everywhere, Emma. I long to do this," and he smoothed his hand on her hip, then reached around it to splay against her ribs, his fingers brushing just under her breast. "I want to explore this here, trace it with my lips, follow the curve inward until I can put my mouth on you, and then do you know what I'd do, Emma? Do you?" She shook her head slightly, her hair swaying and tangling in his beard. "I would bite down right _here_ ," and he brushed his fingers against the tip of her breast, nearly groaning aloud at the hardness he discovered there. "I would not wish to be gentle. Would you wish me to be gentle?" She shook her head again. "Good."

"I wouldn't stop there, love. Do you want to know what would be next?" He barely gave her the opportunity to nod before continuing. "I would, of course, reciprocate over here," and he briefly fingered her other breast before resting his hand across her belly. "And perhaps I'd devote time to here." He leaned forward, curving his chest around the arch of her back, allowing his hand to drift lower. "Oh, the time I would spend here, Emma." He hooked his thumb into the waistband of her trousers, allowing the rest of his fingers to dangle over the front of them. "Hmm, the question that must be asked is which part of me would spend more time there. Perhaps this," and here he brushed his fingers across the panel (zipper, he thinks). "But something tells me you would not be averse to some other part of me, hmm?" Her shaky, indrawn breath made him close his eyes. He leaned his face toward her until their cheeks were pressed together, then he rubbed his facial hair against her smooth skin. "Perhaps this part, yes? Right here?" His hand dipped down, his fingers brushing in between her thighs (gods, her thighs). "Would you like that, Emma?" Her clipped nod caused more friction of his beard on her skin and he could not help the leer that lit up his face. "Ah, I think I would enjoy that as well. The delicate skin of your thighs roughed up with my face. I won't shave for a while in anticipation." Her laugh was husky with amused disbelief at his audacity; it was a laugh he had come to adore. "Don't think I would merely rub this scruff on your thighs, love. Oh, no. There are other things I could do."

"Like what?" Oh _ho_ , participation.

"Oh, I imagine my tongue would be involved. Teeth, too. You would not object, I gather?" She did not speak this time, was perhaps rendered speechless, if her breathing were any indication; she merely nodded a bit quickly. "Hmm. I think that particular activity would require my entire face, love." At that, she finally moaned, a soft gasp of a sound imbued with a strangled sort of swallow. He decided to go for gold. "I adore kissing you, Emma. And I look forward to kissing you here. With my tongue, love. I would lick you savagely; you would not be able to bear it. I would caress you with my mouth, I would love you with my teeth. I would _devour_ you. More than once. I want to hear you beg, Emma. I want my name torn from your lips several times over. I want to drive you as mad as you drive me always. I want to make you so desperate for me that I would almost want to deprive you the pleasure of my cock." She gasped at the vulgarity, her face turning so that her mouth was pressed against his rough stubble. "I wouldn't, of course. But I would want to. Because if there's one thing I wish to do more than make you breathless with anticipation, it's to bury myself in you until I can no longer think of anything but this, this, this," and with each repeat of the word he rutted against her, his now painful arousal thrusting against the curve of her backside.

They were pressed against each other, their breathing heavy and as one. Realizing he had to stop himself before he really did take her against this wall in front of the gods, the town, and possibly her parents, he moistened his lips, turning his face so that their mouths were a mere breath apart.

"You're wet right now, aren't you." A statement of fact. She nodded, her lips brushing his. Dammit, he had to stop.

"Good." The whispered word had to be the final thing, he knew that. But as he slowly descended the last scant measure to press his open mouth to hers, his mind swirled into a devolving mass of imagined skin pressed to his, warm, slick bodies desperate for mutual touch, her, her, always her. Keeping his tongue to himself for now, he gently released his hold on her, leaning his lower half away and stepping to the side. He had to press his hook into the wall else he'd sink to the ground or perhaps inside her, and dammit, it was never the right time.

After several moments of collecting himself, he looked up warily to see her reaction to his... well, teasing. He was a bloody tease. As their eyes met she smirked, narrowing her gaze and fixing him with a calculated look.

"Do they have the phrase 'turnabout's fair play' in your world?"

"Indeed."

"Good. Asshole." She straightened her back and shook out her shoulders, again fixing him with a narrowed gaze. "Then I have one question for you."

"What's that, love?" he asked, a sudden thrill of horrified anticipation running through him.

"Who's gonna save you from the Savior when she decides to return what you just did to me in triplicate?"

Now for that, he really couldn't wait.

**Author's Note:**

> just something i started writing while at the beach and people were screech-texting at me about all the new set pics. thanks for reading! come talk to me on tumblr, give me something to do-- this-too-too-sullied-flesh is me.


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